


Basic Elements

by Angel Ascending (angel_in_ink)



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Baking as Coping Mechanism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Nightmares, Shippy if you Squint, Spoilers for Episode 162, talking about anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:00:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25570225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_in_ink/pseuds/Angel%20Ascending
Summary: Zolf gets lost on the airship while trying to indulge in some late night therapy baking. Instead of finding the galley, he finds someone else who's having trouble sleeping.
Relationships: Celiquillithon "Cel" Sidebottom & Zolf Smith
Comments: 14
Kudos: 51





	Basic Elements

**Author's Note:**

> Really wanted to finish this before work, instead finished it when I got back home at 7am, like you do.
> 
> Thank you to Kristsune for throwing science-y sounding titles at me until one stuck!

All ships _aren’t_ the same, regardless of what Wilde thinks. Zolf is used to vessels that sail on water, used to the rock and sway, the sound of water against wood, the creaking of ropes, the wind in the sails. These things don’t bring him comfort anymore, and he has thought more than once that he might actually hate Poseidon for that if nothing else, for taking away that bit of comfort from him, but the sound and movement of a sailing ship on the sea would at least be _familiar._ Instead, when Zolf wakes from a nightmare of falling endlessly, there is only the vibration of the distant engines to greet him and the sound of his own harsh breathing.

Zolf shifts in his hammock with a groan as he tries to settle back down into sleep, his stomach protesting the action only mildly. That’s an improvement over the first time he’d been on Earhart’s ship at least. He still remembers spending the better part of an entire day feeling absolutely wretched, his body violently protesting the situation while his brain insisted that everything was _wrong_ simply because he was on a ship and it was in the _air_ and not the sea. He’ll take a bit of mild nausea over that misery any day of the week.

Zolf closes his eyes again, feels himself relax, feels his breathing slow….

_Falling. Falling again falling still wind rushing past screaming himself hoarse falling—_

Zolf wakes up with a jolt as if he’s fallen straight out of his nightmare and into the hammock. He pants in the dark of his quarters, grateful to have a room all to himself so that at least he’s not waking up anyone else with this nonsense.

“Right,” Zolf mutters. He’s used to nightmares, used to repetitive, anxious dreams. Getting up and doing something else for a while usually helps. Baking had been his go-to at the inn, and it had gotten to the point where even Carter had picked up on the fact that Zolf had a bad night if there were sweet rolls with breakfast in the morning. Zolf isn’t exactly sure what effect the high altitude would have on bread dough, but he’s willing to at least give it a try.

———

Zolf is starting to wonder if he even _is_ awake, if maybe he’d fallen back asleep while contemplating getting up and found himself in an anxiety dream of a different sort. He can’t find the ship’s galley. He _knows_ there is one, knows there’s a pantry stocked with food right next to it, but every time he opens a door there’s just another room full of gunpowder or weapons.

“Bloody hell,” Zolf mutters loudly as he walks through the corridors. “Didn’t think I was going to need a _map_ to get around. How about some stairs? Can I at least find some stairs?” If he can find the stairs to get above decks, maybe he can get his bearings from there. He thinks he’s on the right track at least, the corridor he’s in now looks at least vaguely familiar. When he rounds the corner and sees the metal door, the one more heavily reinforced than any of the others on the ship, he realizes why. He’s found the door that leads to the elemental chamber. The door, which he _knows_ he had closed tightly behind him that last time he’d been in there, is now slightly ajar.

Zolf sighs and runs a hand over his beard, rubbing his thumb briefly over the golden circlet. No one _should_ be down here in the middle of the night, but he can only think of one person who _would_ be down here. He walks over to the door. “Cel? You in there?”

There’s no answer. Zolf opens the door a little wider and looks inside.

He doesn’t see Cel right away. The room is bright after the darkness of his room and the dimly lit corridors, and he has take a few moments to blink away the after-images of the glowing runes on the floor and the blue-white crackling energy from the crystals containing the lightning elementals before he can see anything properly. He’s not at all surprised to see Cel sitting maybe fifteen feet away from one of the lightning elemental crystals, seemingly staring into the depths, goggles firmly in place over their eyes. What he _is_ surprised by is, well, just how _still_ Cel is. It’s not like Cel can’t be quiet, can’t be still, but more often than not they’re usually muttering to themself if there’s no one around to talk to, fingers tapping against whatever’s nearby. Now though, now Cel is just sitting there, arms wrapped around their knees, watching the lightning dance.

Zolf could just go. He could just walk away and let Cel commune or whatever it is they’re doing. He could go back to trying to find the galley, or give up and just go back to bed. Even as the thoughts pass through his mind, they don’t feel right. The image of Sasha sitting on the roof of their hotel in Paris floats across his consciousness for a moment and then he’s stepping into the room.

“Cel?”

Zolf had made sure to say their name quietly, but Cel flinches as if he had shouted at them, giving a squeak of surprise as their head whips around to face him, one hand going out to keep themself from toppling over.

“Sorry!” Zolf is already taking a step back, hands raised, when Cel shakily begins to laugh.

“Mr.—Zolf! Didn’t hear you come in! I was just— just really focused. Is everything all right?”

Zolf lowers his hands. “Was going to ask you the same thing.” He gestures to the spot next to them. There’s a notebook laying open there he hadn’t noticed until just now. “May I join you?”

“Sure?” It’s more of a question than anything else as they shift position, sitting cross legged and pulling their notebook onto their lap. Zolf notices as he sits down that it’s not actually a notebook, but a sketchbook. Earhart’s face, grim and unsmiling, sits in profile on the page, the black ink capturing the firm set to her jaw and the dark fire in her eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Zolf asks. They’re not dressed for sleeping, as least as far as Zolf can tell. They’re wearing the same button down they’d had on at dinner, the same pants with their endless array of pockets. The only thing missing are their gloves. Without them, Zolf can see the beginning (or the end, he’s never asked) of the lightning scar on the back of their hand, the one that goes all the way up to their shoulder.

“Haven’t tried.” Cel shifts their goggles to the top of their head, revealing the beginning shadows of sleeplessness under their eyes. “Probably should. Just—“ One hand comes up to tap their fingers against the side of their head while the other drums at their sketchbook. “Do your thoughts ever get… loud?”

Zolf blinks. “I…” He thinks about nights spent awake, about days where his brother’s death has played over and over in his mind, about the way his dreams repeat lately, nightmares about drowning, about being buried alive, about blue veins creeping across the faces of those he cares about, about falling. “I wouldn’t have thought to put it that way, but yeah. Yeah I guess so.” He watches Cel’s fingers tapping against the portrait on the page. “This about Earhart?”

“There’s a saying about revenge, don’t know if you’d have heard it.”

“Best served cold, right?”

Cel shakes their head. “No. I mean, yes, but that’s not the one I was thinking of.” They look up towards the ceiling for a moment as if trying to recall something. “In English it’d be something like… ‘If you seek revenge, best dig two graves.’” Cel taps the page a little more forcefully. “She’s already dug that grave for herself, but she’s gone and dug graves for the rest of us too. And it’s not like there aren’t causes I’m willing to die for, or people I’d risk myself to protect. But _I’m_ the one who gets to make that choice! And she shouldn’t be making that choice for the rest of you either!”

Cel’s trembling now, in anger or frustration, Zolf isn’t sure which. He reaches out to put a hand on their shoulder, thinks about putting a little magic behind the contact, just enough to calm them down, but he doesn’t have to. Their shaky breathing starts to slow almost immediately, their trembling quieting down to a vibration like the hum of the engines through the floor.

“We _did_ sign up for this,” Zolf says. “We knew before we left that killing Guivres if we came across her was part of the deal.”

“I know,” Cel says. “And I’ll be right there with the rest of you when that happens.” They finger a potion bottle at their belt, something that shimmers and crackles almost like the lightning elemental caged in front of them. “It’s…. She doesn’t _care_ what happens to us, as long as she gets what she wants. That’s the part that bothers me.” They look at the lightning elementals in their crystals, barely squinting against the light. “ _You_ care. It took me a little while to figure out exactly what you care _about_ , because it always seemed like you didn’t want to be with the rest of us a lot of the time, but I figured it out.” They look back to Zolf, eyes reflecting the crackling arcs of electricity contained within the crystals. “You care about _people_ , Zolf, care about them so hard that sometimes it makes you shouty and frustrated and sad, because you never want to see anyone get hurt.”

Zolf has to look away from Cel then, because he’ll be damned if Cel’s words haven’t struck straight to the core of him. He’s never felt so _seen_ before. “Well, I mean, of course I care.”

“It’s not a given,” Cel says. “Caring about other people, I mean. I wish it was.”

Zolf stares at the foggy shape of the air elemental swirling in its crystal. “Yeah. Yeah, me too. Would solve a lot of problems.”

There’s silence for a moment, but only a moment before Cel speaks up again. “Why _are_ you up, anyway?”

“Just bad dreams,” Zolf says. “Kept dreaming about falling and decided that if that’s how things were going to be tonight, I’d rather be awake and doing something instead.” He risks a look back at Cel to find that their intensely knowing and heartfelt gaze has softened enough for him to look at. “Was trying to find the galley. Got lost. Found you instead.”

Cel reaches up to their shoulder and gives Zolf’s hand a brief squeeze. “Glad you did.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.” Zolf stands up with a sigh. “ _You_ don’t remember how to get to the galley from here, do you? Not sure if I can even _get_ dough to rise at this altitude, but I thought I’d give it a shot.”

“Oh bread dough rises even _faster_ this high up,” Cel says as they get to their feet. “It has to do with the low air pressure.”

Zolf blinks. “I didn’t know that.” He chuckles. “I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised that you _do_.”

“Baking and cooking are _basically_ alchemy,” Cel says, their voice warming up to the excited pitch it took on when they were really passionate about something. Zolf feels himself smiling to hear it. “Delicious alchemy! I have _loads_ of stories about things I used to experiment with in the kitchen before I started making actual potions instead.”

“I’d love to hear about them,” Zolf says, and is rewarded with a smile as brilliant as a flash of lightning.

———

Zolf wakes with a stiff neck from sleeping funny and the warm taste of cinnamon on his tongue. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, and if he had anymore bad dreams he doesn’t remember those either. Instead, he remembers making cinnamon rolls with Cel’s help while they chatted about culinary experiments, about brewing mead and boiling down maple sap of all things to make into syrup. The rolls had turned out wonderfully, but even if they had turned out poorly Zolf doesn’t think he would have minded as much as he normally would have.

Cel’s asleep next to him, their head pillowed on their arms, a streak of flour down one cheek. Zolf’s surprised to see their sketchbook next to them, laying open, but he’s even more surprised to see himself looking up at him from the page. There’s a small smile on the drawing’s lips, and Zolf can’t help but to echo it with his own.

The sound of footsteps and voices in the corridor break Zolf out of his revere. “Oh no, it’s cinnamon,” he hears Carter saying. “You know he’s had a bad night when it’s cinnamon.”

“Not _so_ bad a night,” Zolf says quietly, before grabbing the plate of rolls and moving to intercept everybody before they wake Cel up.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m [angel-ascending](http://angel-ascending.tumblr.com) over on Tumblr and [angel_in_ink](http://twitter.com/angel_in_ink) over on Twitter if y’all want to stop by and say hi!


End file.
